Peter Helton - Falling More Slowly

‘Yeah, I forgot it was in there actually. I got it cheap from the market. I’ll probably need to chuck that away now.’

‘Okay. What’s in the other one, more fruit?’

‘The other one?’

‘Yes. The other one.’

Reed opened it with an impatient flick. Snugly fitted inside was a plastic container brimful with dark, oily mud. The hooked handle of a ladle was just visible.

McLusky impatiently wriggled his fingers. ‘The leaflets, hand them over.’

Reed shoved a hand deep into his jacket and produced a wad of his home-made pamphlets. DISABLE A CAR TODAY … McLusky handed them on to the PC. ‘Here, get Fruit ’n’ Mud and his bicycle down the station for a chat. If he gives you any grief at all, caution him. We want to chat some more and when we’re finished I know a few people from Traffic who are keen to have a word.’

Sorbie shifted on his bar stool, checked the time on his mobile and swore silently. He was on his fourth mug of stewed tea at the clapboard cafe that served the lock-up owners, delivery drivers and the workers from the nearby trading estate. From where he was sitting he had a good view of Mitchell’s lock-up, just two doors up. Entrance to the warehouses was on alternate sides to give more forecourt space, which meant that old cars, broken-down vans, stacks of wooden pallets and nests of bins proliferated on both sides.

There was no guarantee that Mitchell would turn up before the tea and sausage rolls Sorbie kept ordering at intervals gave him the heartburn from hell but it would be worth it. A bit of banter, some sleight of hand — he’d always been good at that, card tricks, shoplifting as a school kid — and soon Mr Mitchell’s emporium would lie wide open to explore. After that a bit of luck and good timing was what was needed. Quite a bit of luck, come to think of it. And here was the bastard at last, getting out of an unfashionable old Jaguar. And he was by himself which was perfect. Sorbie moved fast; he had to time this just right. His bike was parked close to the huge double doors, giving him the excuse to walk over. As far as he knew Mitchell had never set eyes on him yet it was important he would not recognize him later, so Sorbie put his helmet on and pretended to fumble with his straps just as Mitchell snapped open the enormous brass padlock that secured the doors.

Heavy in Sorbie’s jacket pocket weighed another padlock of identical make, already flipped open. ‘S’cuse me, mate. I was wonderin’ …’

Mitchell turned around suspiciously. ‘What?’

‘I was wonderin’ … me and a couple of mates was thinking of maybe renting one of these lock-ups for using as a workshop. For fixing up bikes for the bike club.’

‘And?’ Mitchell turned his back on him and opened the door just wide enough to let himself in.

‘I was wonderin’ how big they was and how much the council charged and that.’

Mitchell flicked a wall switch and high up in the ceiling two banks of neon lights blinked on. By the time he turned round to face Sorbie again the padlocks had changed places.

‘Mind if I have a quick shufti?’

‘Sorry, can’t allow you in there, security, see? But, I mean, you can get an idea of the size from here. And what you pay depends entirely on what state the place is in, whether it has leccy and water and all that. All right? Ask the council.’ Mitchell was closing the door on him.

Sorbie turned away, nodding, as though totally satisfied. ‘Yeah, cheers, mate.’ He started his bike and rode off straight away, without looking back. At the next junction he turned off, parked the bike next to a waiting Renault and got into the car on the passenger side.

DI Fairfield started the engine. ‘Okay?’

‘Piece of piss, guv. I still think you should let me go in instead.’

‘We’ve already had this talk, twice, DI Sorbie. I’ll not discuss it again. You’ve done your bit and I’m grateful, now shove off, you’re off duty. If it goes tits up then at least it’ll be my tits. Hand over the lock.’

Sorbie dropped the weighty padlock into her outstretched palm and got out, closing the door with disapproving but not insubordinate force. Fairfield waited until he had ridden off then drove fast in the opposite direction to the warehouses, turned into the potholed customer car park of the Railway Tavern and parked in a spot from where it was just possible, albeit at an extreme angle, to observe the doors of Mitchell’s lock-up. They’d been very lucky, the timing couldn’t have been better. It was cashing-up time now at the cafe. Through her lightweight binoculars she observed the girls as they took in the menu boards and closed the shutters of the squat wooden hut. At all times she kept the doors of the lock-up in view. She didn’t expect to see anything surprising. When they had first targeted Mitchell they had watched ad nauseam as nothing much happened. No one except the owner was ever seen visiting and the eventual search of the lock-up had produced nothing but more or less legitimate junk. A search of Mitchell’s garden flat had equally drawn a blank. Yet she remained convinced that Mitchell was behind the scooter muggings. Not that there wasn’t enough other street crime to keep them going, but the persistence of this gang and the arrogance of the man she suspected to run it rankled. She knew she was damaging her career in pursuit of a small-time criminal but she didn’t care. Other officers had a more sanguine attitude to criminals who got away. They consoled themselves with the thought that you could never catch them all and that if you couldn’t get them for a particular offence you were bound to get them for another one later. It was an attitude she found hard to cultivate. For her, letting a criminal carry on meant she was failing to protect the victims of his crimes. This, too, was probably not a practical stance. She knew that some of her colleagues loathed the victims of crime almost as much as those perpetrating it. It was true some people seemed to invite crime.

The only thing she felt slightly guilty about was leaving Sorbie under the impression that she had thought up the padlock trick herself when in reality she’d remembered it from a crime story she had read years ago.

It wasn’t long until Mitchell emerged, carrying a box. Through her binoculars she could make out the picture of a DVD player on its side. Transferring the box to his left hip he hefted the heavy door shut with his shoulder, then hooked the padlock in place and snapped it shut one-handed. A conscientious tug to test it had fastened, then he walked left out of sight to where she knew his car stood. Moments later the Jaguar passed her field of vision going west in the direction of Mitchell’s home.

Once she was sure the cafe staff had all gone Fairfield didn’t waste any time. She had come prepared with gloves, pencil torch and a small digital camera that had excellent night vision. As she started across the car park, eyes fixed on the lock-up on the other side of the road, four young men heading towards the pub in high spirits called out to her. ‘You’re going the wrong way, sweetheart, the pub’s over there.’

‘Yeah, come and join us, come for a drink.’

Fairfield gave them a non-committal smile. And just in case they took further interest she kept walking until the pub was out of sight, allowing time for the lads to disappear inside, then walked back, crossed the road and sauntered up to the lock-up, making it look as though she belonged. The cold brass lock released after one turn of the key.

‘Open sesame.’

A huge, sprawling hive. A big, convoluted, up-and-down-switchback town full of noise, full of life, full of everything a man could want. Here were all the pubs and clubs, all the theatres and museums, restaurants and takeaways you could stomach. Its streets made you feel that anything might happen, to someone, somewhere, for some reason. He loved this city. He’d grown up here, knew every corner and alley as well as his adversaries did. Sometimes he knew them better, since he had made it his business to better them. He owned this place in a way an incomer like McLusky would never do, however long he hung about. Which is why he, Sorbie, would make a fist of it. An angry fist but one that served well. Career mattered, clear-up rates mattered, yet just fighting the war also mattered to him. They could never win the war, not even a police state could win this war, but you had to keep winning battles, at least some of them, keep putting the fear into them, or the streets would become unmanageable. Once that happened, ghettos and no-go areas would follow, parts of the city abandoned, handed over to the dregs of society to be administered by the criminally insane. It could happen. But it must not happen. Not here.